Crucibulum
by spaceraider2070
Summary: A young man awakes on a toxic desert world in the hive-city of Crucibulum, with no memory of his past, or of the war which devastated his planet . All around him is ruin and he is utterly alone. Can he discover the truth of Crucibulum's fate? A couple of opening chapters for a longer story I have planned. Set in the Warhammer 40k universe. Constructive criticism very welcome.
1. Chapter 1

_**Crucibulum**_

**Chapter 1**

His eyes opened. The searing bright light carried hot pain with it. Feeling emerged in his extremities, returning alongside blurred vision and dulled hearing. A prone form lay before him, craning his neck to regard limp legs. It was as he became aware of a noxious tang in the arid air that he realised these legs were his own, and that the rubber of his right boot was being cooked in the sun. It was all he could do not to cry out as he felt his right hand being similarly irradiated, using his little remaining strength to cling to consciousness as he snatched it to his chest and attempted to inure himself to sharp breaths of thick, sour air. His faculties now fully returned, every thunderous heartbeat pulsed in his hand and racked him with agony, grinding his teeth as tears fell unbidden down his cheeks.

Wiping his eyes and steeling himself as well as he knew how, he forced himself to assess the damage; once he raised his hand from his chest and bade his eyes to look, an involuntary wail emitted from his throat, growing to a scream, and then to sobs. His skin had once been pallid yet healthy. It was now starch white, stained with pink inflammation, bursting into shining crimson where the sandpaper-like tissue had given way. It was a ghost's hand, appearing small and withered, but swollen around the wrist, chafing on the tight cuff of his sleeve. The fact this hand was almost unrecognisable as his own provided a ponderous second of thought to wrestle his mind from its state of shock, and, his sobs slowing, he tore his eyes from it and took in his surroundings.

Luckily for the rest of him, he thought, only his right hand and foot had been exposed to direct sunlight. He was sitting in the shadow of an overpass many metres above him. His eyes scanned the scorched roadway he currently occupied, passing over a blackened, squat shell in front of him that was once an armoured vehicle, with great rents and gouges across its surface. He crawled, pawing the ground with his good hand, to the concrete divider separating the lanes of the highway, propping himself up with his back against it. Looking out at the scene before him, he felt so small, his spot of shadow a tiny blip in the middle of a gargantuan concrete river, littered with wrecks and debris, stretching to the horizon. Beyond it, a horizon in of itself, he saw a sight which gave him his first sense of familiarity in the miasma of confusion; breaking through the toxic yellow clouds and clouds of dust rose the squalid hab-blocks, gleaming spires, and now, smouldering ruins of the hive-city of Crucibulum.

As the pulses of agony dampened and became more bearable, he brushed away fine dusty sand, which had gathered in the creases of his dark blue fatigues and caked his face and hair. He began to feel the mild irritation of the sand against his skin as he saw the fabric had been torn or singed away in many places, revealing myriad small cuts and gashes on his bare flesh underneath, similarly clogged with sand. Glancing down at his boots he saw the left a familiar polished black, while the right had been softened and bleached to a dull grey by the midday sun's radiation. Standing unaided now, finding more sure-footedness by the second, he let out a shaky, anguished sigh, turning his eyes skyward, watching the light dance through the sickly chemical miasma above. Though dampened by the layers of pollutant cloud above the city, the sun created a choking heat and disorienting brightness, mustard tinged. Taking deep breaths to master his discomfort, he ran his good hand through his hair, feeling it matted and sticky; flakes of dried blood coated his hand as he pulled it back. Reaching again, tentatively feeling the back of his skull with two fingers, he winced as they found a smooth, warm gash parting his hair, and followed a wet trail trickling down to his collar. It was stuck to the back of his neck. Sure enough, pulling his fingers away this time, he found them coated in fresh blood. The thumping of his heart, dryness of his mouth, and greying at the edges of his vision began to return with this realisation of his newfound handicap, crashing back into the concrete divider, his legs buckling. He set himself down into a sitting position, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his sharp breaths of the fetid air to relieve his panic. After a few minutes, he opened them, his racing heart and brain calmed, and set his mind to assessing his situation for the first time.

Aloud and breathless, he gave voice to the burning question in his mind "Where the fuck am I?". He remembered the hive; how couldn't he? It was a monstrous thing, the revolting, wondrous spectacle of it unforgettable. He gazed at the pale-yellow sky, the ground around him baking under the world's deadly sun. He smelled the sour tang of chemical pollutants in the air, and knew this to be Crucibulum. The capital of this world, he was drafted from his home, far, far away, into its defence. Flashes of recognition appeared in his mind. He remembered the evacuation, the Arbites coming to his village, pulling people from their homes and into their trucks. He remembered fear, talk of invasion, panicked voices from the telescreens as he and thousands of others were herded through the city. He remembered the draft, being given a number, a uniform, a weapon. But he did not remember being here. He did not remember who, or what he was drafted to fight against. He did not remember any fighting. He did not remember his name.

He was afraid. He didn't know much, but he knew he'd never felt so utterly alone before. He tried to push it to the back of his mind. As he attempted to pull himself up, his head wound made its presence known, feeling as though his head was being torn from within. He cursed aloud. It felt almost rude, intrusive, to speak. As if the sound of silence was a conversation he was interrupting. Silence reigned and it reigned alone. He thought how utterly alien silence must be to a city such as this. Refocusing, he continued speaking aloud, as much to stave off the isolation as to give himself direction; "Food. Water. Shelter" he said, the vast intimidating silence becoming less daunting with every word. When night came, temperatures would plummet, and these three things alone needed to be his concerns right now. He brought himself, unsupported, into a standing position again, and immediately fell into a squatting position, his head between his knees, as unconsciousness threatened to envelop him still, and bile rose in his throat. He spewed a little clear liquid onto the ground at his feet, and waited for the ringing in his ears to stop. After what felt like an age of slowly rising, acclimatising himself to balance with every small movement, he eventually stood. He couldn't stay here, he thought, not on this dry, flat expanse of concrete. The highway must have been a kilometre wide at least, but if he could brave the sun and get off it, into the surrounding outskirts, then he would have a far better chance of survival. And so, stooping, turning up his collar to cover his neck, and cradling his mangled hand to his chest, he began to trudge out of cover, as fast as he was able, towards the highway's edge.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Crucibulum**_

**Chapter 2**

Clouds of vapour hung low in the sky as he limped ever forwards, sickly, waning sunlight pouring through at an angle depriving him of the cover of shadow. He did not know for how long he had been trudging through the ruins, but judging by the imminent sunset he guessed it was easily half a day. Following his exit from the highway, he had wandered down an exit ramp into what appeared to be an arterial road cutting through the suburban slums comprising the outskirts of the hive. He had stolen a few gulps of water from a leaking coolant pipe, exposed through the rent hull of a mangled vehicle, tasting of oil and making him retch, before attempting to determine which direction he should take. Given that the immense spiretops of the hive were omnipresent from wherever he was standing, he began to follow the highway towards it, staying in the great shadow the raised roadway cast over the squalid neighbourhoods underneath. Not a soul remained. Ramshackle residences of plastic sheeting and corrugated iron lay gutted by flame, still smoking. Scorched timber supports creaked and groaned, embers bursting forth, creating sparks in the shadows when they broke. These outskirts were an endless sea of tiny, one room houses, seemingly constructed simply out of whatever materials must have been lying around, in whatever empty space there might have been.

He noted the frequency of more permanent-looking buildings increasing as he progressed through the streets; he came first to what seemed to be a military checkpoint in the road, with the smouldering ruin of a stone watchtower beside a broken barrier blocking half the road. It was as though the sea of slum housing was a viral infection that had broken through these barriers from the inside out, as he noticed a wire fence had been torn down to accommodate one such improvised shack. It was then another flash of a memory intruded into his consciousness; he remembered a great flood of people, refugees. It was not only his village that had been evacuated, but all of them. He had stood at a barricade, weapon in hand, and watched as wailing masses were shut out of the gates. It was the thousands, perhaps even millions of displaced that had erected these slums. He scrutinised them as he walked, staring at the poorly improvised shelters and appalling conditions, which, even before the devastation of war, appeared to have been beyond poverty.

He had continued deeper into the outskirts until he reached what he presumed was the beginning of the city limits proper; the yellow light bathing the surroundings was turning to orange, the shadows deepening and darkening as the sun sank ever lower. It was now that temperatures were dropping and darkness descending that he began to fully appreciate the desperate nature of his predicament. He had simply no idea of when he had last eaten, and the gnawing hunger had begun to develop into swirling pain in his stomach, compounding the aches in his hand and head. These wounds themselves were taking their toll; as exhaustion and disorientation began to intensify, he was unable to continue onwards without supporting himself against the walls of houses. He rounded a street corner on to what once might have been a common green or park, but now boasted a cluster of improvised shelters and sandbag emplacements, pocketed with craters from shelling, and blackened from still smoking fires.

It was as he slowly limped across towards the edge of the green that a shape caught his eye in the ruined shell of a hab-block behind him; a shadow slinked from the black dark of the interior, created by the now almost set sun. Yellowed, feral eyes glowed behind a ragged, toothed snout as the wiry hound revealed itself, unblinking, and, to his horror, drooling. He faced the snarling creature, moving tenderly, half paralysed by fear, towards the shack closest to him at the edge of the grass. Quickly darting his eyes back in the direction from which he came, more wiry shadows were prowling, the failing light reflecting in their hungry stares. He'd been followed, he realised. This pack of strays saw his weakness, smelled his blood, and now had waited until nightfall to pick him apart once he collapsed from exertion. He glanced in the direction of the shelter. It was only a few metres away, but so were they. The apparent leader of the pack, a large, brown stray, the one with yellow eyes, lowered its scarred visage to the ground as it slowly padded towards him, set to pounce.

He made his decision. With speed he didn't know he had, fuelled by the adrenaline, he snapped around on his heels and practically leapt towards the open entrance of the closest shack. The starving mongrels seemed to respond before he had even made his move, bounding and shrieking towards him, frothing at their mouths. Sprinting, he crashed onto the floor of the structure, kicking the lead dog, which had been right on his heels, out of the doorway. He slammed the rudimentary wooden panel shut as the followers of the pack slammed into it a second later, the structure around it creaking and groaning. He grabbed a loose sheet of corrugated metal from the floor and held it against the entrance with his back, as the hounds yelped and continued to smash against the walls and door. In the rush of the escape, he had slammed the door with both hands, and now he had a moment of respite, agony hit him as the skin of his burned appendage split and cracked even more. He sobbed as howls and snarling rang out around his shelter, and forced himself to be quiet when he realised they had suddenly stopped. In trepidation, he turned and pulled back the metal sheet he was leaning on. Immediately a set of slobbering jaws thrust through a hole in the wooden panel and began to bark viciously, as pounding on the walls restarted on all sides of the cabin. He began to break down again as he realised these animals weren't just strays; they were intelligent, wild dogs, and hungry ones at that, and the improvised cabin of wooden planks and thin metal sheeting wasn't going to hold all of them back. A slam followed by a crack exploded to his right as a plank splintered, black and weakened, broken by a grizzled snout, blood dripping from its mouth. More slams rang out, reverberating in the tiny room, making the walls seem to close in on him, if not literally. He backed into the middle of the cabin, curling into a foetal position on the floor. He felt so small again. He felt like a child. He felt as though the only living things left on this world were him and these beasts, and he knew he would die alone and in agony, clueless and afraid. He cried, not unbidden, not from pain, but from fear, from wanting his mother, his home, to be anywhere, anywhere in the galaxy but in this shack with these monsters.

The constant smashing and howling, mewling and barking was broken by a thunderous crack from somewhere outside. The curious padding of paws on the earth broke the silence, once more an oddity to him, rounding the cabin. Another sharp crack rang out, and this time he heard fearful yelps, and running. He raised his head to peer through one of the holes rent in the flimsy wood, only to see the lead mongrel's yellow eyes flashing back at him from the distant dark, before fading into the night completely. He sat himself up in disbelief, cradling his injured hand and breathing hard, tears pooling in his eyes. He heard footsteps, and a gloved hand pushed the mangled door aside. A dark figure looked down on him, a smoking laspistol in hand. "You're looking a sorry sight, friend, but indeed still one for sore eyes".


	3. Chapter 3

_**Crucibulum**_

**Chapter 3**

After the mysterious figure had chased off the strays, it entered the cabin without another word, properly barricading the flimsy entrance and walls. After that, he guessed he had passed out, because he awoke finding himself lying in a corner, his injuries coated with medi-gel and swathed in cloth bandages. His rescuer now sat silent over a small fire in the middle of the floor, stirring something in a pot. He sat up and stretched, causing pain to shoot up his arm and bloom in his skull, but not half as badly as he remembered.

"Who are you?" he finally asked, after deliberating in his head which of his many questions he should start with. The stranger continued stirring. "Excuse me, who are you?" he asked again, suddenly feeling how dry this throat was, and how the dust and tears had hardened on his face. "Someone trying to decide what to do with you", the reply came back. The figure stood, moved around the fire, and set itself down against the opposite wall of the cabin. Though shadow still shrouded the stranger, as well as the smoke from the fire, gathering in a thin haze inside before seeping out through gaps in the sheet metal roof, he got his first glimpse of a haggard face beneath a hooded cowl. The flickering of the light did nothing to betray its expression, dancing shadows making there appear at one moment to be a wry smile, and the next a dark scowl. Equally difficult to decipher was the tone of the deep, harshly accented voice that said "the important question is who are _you_, kid".

The fire crackled and waved, illuminating the muzzle of a now raised pistol. "When I first saw you, I called you friend, because that's what I thought I saw," the figure turned its head and spat a wad of tobacco on the floor before continuing. "Then I got a better look at you. Saw that patch on your arm, and realised I probably should've shot you rather than trying to help you." He opened his mouth to ask what he meant by "patch", but stopped himself when he looked down to see the letter "K" emblazoned on the left arm of his fatigues. It was topped with the motif of a winged crown. "However," the figure continued "given that I'd already used some of my _very_ fucking vital medical supplies on you, I thought it'd be at least economical of me to give you a chance to explain yourself."

He opened his mouth, dumbstruck by this sudden tirade, without a clue where to start. "I..." he found himself unable to form a sentence in his head, let alone to produce one out loud "I..." "That's not a very good explanation." the figure interrupted with a sneer, leaning forwards to the edge of the fire. "Look, you'd better give me something. I don't want to have to assume you're just a uniform, and blow a lasbolt through your skull. Honestly." He gesticulated with his pistol while talking, which was now gleaming in the light of the fire.

"I..." he mouthed again, tears building in his eyes. The threat of death was not calming his racing heart, nor making processing this situation any easier. The stranger eventually seemed to realise this, and sighed. He turned his pistol away, but kept it ready in his grip, and pulled down his hood, revealing a rough, yet handsome face. Bronze skin, weathered and scarred, yet not un-youthful, shone gold in the firelight; dark, thick hair was matted with dust, and framed a dirty, unshaven face; from beneath it all gazed kind, brown eyes, antithetical to his otherwise grizzled visage.

"Kid, who _are _you?" the stranger asked, slowly this time, almost softly, looking into his eyes. "I genuinely don't know" he replied tearfully. The stranger scratched his stubbled neck, scanning him head to toe, coldly analytic. "The patch on your arm, the way you looked at it, it was like you'd never seen it before in your life. Hard to fake a reaction like that. Do you know what it means, kid?". "All I know is I woke up on a highway, with this," he replied, gesturing to his bandaged arm "then I dragged myself here, and you saw the rest". His voice became shaky, almost pleading, as he spoke, intensely aware this stranger still had a charged pistol in his hand. The stranger narrowed his eyes as if looking for a tell, any giveaway that this was some act to lower his guard. After a painful minute of eye contact between them, one that felt like an eternity, the stranger stood and holstered his gun.

"Well, looks like supper's ready!", the stranger exclaimed, suddenly, in an apparently chipper mood, and knelt down to begin taking the pot off the fire. He sat still, teary, dumbfounded once more by the seismic shift in the temperament of this man. "Oh," he continued "and you can call me Sini, by the way".

Once Sini had scooped half the beans into a canteen and handed the other half, still in the pot, to him, they sat in silence, and ate supper. Though this bean broth was watery, sour, and lacked any kind of colour, he had never enjoyed a meal more in his life. The pain in his gut began to recede with every mouthful, leaving him the closest to comfort he had been since he could last remember. Eventually, after they'd finished, Sini assumed his previous position, slouched against the opposite wall of the shack, put his feet up close to the fire, and took a large bottle out of his kit bag.

"So," he began, pausing to pull the cork out with his teeth "we didn't really establish what you _do _know, only what you don't". He watched him take a long swig from the bottle, followed by a slight retch. It was obviously a substance stronger than water. "Let's start with the very basics. Do you have a name?" Sini asked. "No. I don't remember" he replied. "Well, I'll need to call you something. Got a problem with, just, 'Kid'?" Sini said, grinning, and pointing at the large letter "K" on his arm. "No." replied Kid, aware of the implicit condescension. Despite that, there was something he liked about it though. It didn't feel too far from his real name. Or, at least, he thought not.

"Alright, then what about where you're from? You look out of place in this city, I'll tell you that." Sini said as he took another gulp.

"I don't know. Not somewhere like here. Somewhere small, I think. A village. Somewhere with trees. And water. I think." Kid replied. "But what makes you say that?"

"Ah agri-colonies probably, a Northlander of some descript. That explains a lot." Sini managed to articulate through more of the bottle's contents "And I say that because your skin is like paper, bright white, and burns like it in the sun too. The radiation is toxic enough even to us Eressha".

Kid stared blankly at him. "Well, in simple terms, you're from the cold lands up north, I'm from here. Here isEress. Or at least, the desert outside the city is. This hell is a different land its own right." Sini stopped, seeing a look of realisation on Kid's face.

"I remember now," he began, "something about 'Eresh', 'Elesh'" trying to pronounce it as Sini had, in a thick accent, prompting visible annoyance on his part. "We were fighting them. I take it that's to do with this?" Kid asked, turning his shoulder towards Sini and pointing at the "K", still very wary of his initial reaction towards the symbol.

"That, Kid, is a symbol I'm damned sure you were forced to fight for. Mad bastard was struggling for manpower by the end." Sini set down the bottle now, practically able to see the exponentially growing number of questions on the end of Kid's tongue. "It's the crest of Kyreus. 'King' Kyreus as he'd have you know. Started this whole mess." Sini stopped for a second, and quickly added "the mess being our planet's pointless civil war".

Picking up the bottle, drinking again, and pondering for a few seconds, he went on "I speak in present tense, but really, you're the first human being I've seen in two days. I'm the same as you as far as that goes. One second I was fighting, next, I woke up, and everybody was gone. Just ruins". A deep melancholy fell on him. It looked as though he would say more, but decided against it.

"Anyway," he shifted forwards clumsily, handing the bottle to Kid "that's enough history lessons for tonight. Have this, Kid. It's going to be cold once I put the fire out". He went to his bag and pulled out two loose woollen bundles, throwing one to Kid. "Medi-gel, food, and booze are great," he said "but sleep, sleep, Kid, will save your life". With that he turned the cooking put on its head and smothered the fire, plunging them into blackness. "Good night, Kid". "Good night, Sini."

**Thank you to anyone reading my work. I'm really enjoying creating this story and hoping these opening parts have intrigued some people. Any comments/reviews, positive or negative, would be really appreciated.**


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